“Just so you know,” Stiles tells Derek mildly, voice hoarse and breathy, “we’re dating now.” He leisurely sucks Derek’s come off his skin, one finger at a time. Derek watches, transfixed. Nods. “This can count as our first date.”
Derek snaps out of his trance and scowls up at him. “I’m not telling people our first date was a two-year-overdue fuck on my kitchen floor.”
“You could take me out to dinner,” offers Stiles hopefully. “I mean, once this is over.” He twitches his hips to illustrate his point, and they both keen at the shift of the knot inside him. Derek grabs his waist instinctively. After a moment, Stiles puts his hands over Derek’s. “Message received,” Stiles says eventually to his own crotch. “Movement is discouraged.”
Or encouraged, Derek thinks. He slides his thumb in a light semicircle, soothing; with a quiet, contented hum, Stiles shuts his eyes. Tilts his head to his right to flop idly against the cabinets.
“Two years is an underestimation,” he says softly. “We should have been doing this since we met.”
Derek grimaces. “You were sixteen when we met.”
“It’s legal in the UK!” Stiles exclaims, offended.
“Fine, fine,” returns Derek, rolling his eyes. “Then it’s four years overdue.”
“The way I feel about you now aside,” Stiles says, lips quirking into a nervous grin, fingers skittering across Derek’s skin, “you’ve always been empirically hot. I didn’t like you at all, but sixteen-year-old me would’ve had sex with you in a second.”
It’s that delightful concoction of embarrassment, flattery, and shock that has Derek’s face heating up, the tips of his ears flushing neon red. His instinct is to squirm, but he can’t when he’s locked in Stiles this way. “I think it’s starting to go down,” he says, and his ears go even hotter when he realises how husky his voice sounds.
“Yeah?” Stiles squirms again, and Derek tightens the grip he has on Stiles’ hips.
“Not down enough for me to pull out yet,” he snaps, and Stiles’ eyebrow twitches upward at his tone.
Probably just to punish Derek, he rolls his hips with purpose, and they both gasp. “Oh,” Stiles says faintly. “Oh, this—probably a bad idea.”
“Really bad idea,” Derek agrees, moving up into him. “S-someone could—”
“Oh, you’re worried about that now, are you?” Stiles giggles guiltily, eyes shut, striking up a rhythm. “Doesn’t it sort of—oh my god—make it all the more—”
“No, it makes it dangerous,” Derek says through grit teeth, but his dick seems to agree with Stiles.
“You can hear if someone’s coming—”
“Not with—not when you’re—”
“God, Derek.” Stiles’ hand, hot and damp and shaky, closes on Derek’s, drags it between his legs. “Touch me.” Derek does, and Stiles’ face splits in a huge grin. “We, we can tell people it was dinner. This is, this is so much better than dinner. You’re so—aha—” With a breathless sort of cackle, he comes again, spills searing across Derek’s chest. “Shit—”
“Stiles, I—” Derek shuts his eyes tight and comes again, stripped of everything in him, until he collapses, wrung out and desperate and ruined. He doesn’t know how long it is before he opens his eyes, breathing heavily. Stiles is sweating, rosy-cheeked, panting, hair clinging in locks to his forehead. He’s blinding.
“Does it just start over now? This physiological process makes no sense,” Stiles tells him, gravelly. “I’m gonna talk to the cat. C’mere, cat.” Derek hears a distant, quizzical noise from the cat. “Yeah, me. You have to talk to me, I’m Derek’s boyfriend now.”
That he is. He is that thing. Derek sighs happily.
It hits Derek like a sack of bricks, the exact instant he realizes how fucking in love he is with Stiles. Maybe he’ll look back on this at the end of his life—whenever that happens to be—and remember the moment perfectly, and maybe he won’t; waking up slowly in bed to the soft postdawn light of his bedroom, seeing Stiles so gorgeously silhouetted by the curtained window, dressed in nothing but his underwear and cradling a mug of hot coffee, one leg casually bent, posture so painfully relaxed and innocent of Derek’s gaze. The sight overwhelms Derek in a heartbeat, drowns him in its weight, but if his love is an ocean he’ll never wish for a breath of air again.
All Derek can see is the dark, fuzzy impression of the back of Stiles’s head as he looks quietly out the window at something Derek can only guess at. A private mystery that, like a lot of things, like Derek, now, belongs to Stiles and Stiles alone, that might put a lingering hint of a smile on his lips when he finally—a minute from now, an hour maybe—turns and catches Derek staring. Knowing Stiles, the smile won’t be long for a teasing smirk and some offhand remark about Derek’s creeper tendencies, and then the moment’ll be gone, replaced by flirtatiously traded barbs and maybe a lazy round of wakeup sex. But until then, this Stiles is all his, the long, brushstroke-graceful curve of his broad shoulders down to the sensual dip of his back, the tender handspan of his impossibly narrow waist, the gentle swell of his ass and long lines of his legs, the unspeakably sexy way his skintight briefs cling to his cock and balls. Even the sight of his exaggerated puppy-paw hands and feet, for once motionless and calm, catches Derek’s breath in his chest, details of the body Derek knows so intimately just barely visible against the backdrop of morning sunlight.
He must make a noise of some kind, a gentle releasing of all the things suddenly building behind his breastbone in an unbearable swell of feeling, because Stiles suddenly turns, a minute pivot of hip and shoulder, and he’s looking at Derek with the same serenity he’d reserved for whatever he was watching outside. The smile isthere, but stays quiet and knowing for a drawn-out second as they do nothing but gaze at each other from across the room, Stiles’s expression open and warm and heartbreaking as the steam from his coffee teases tendrils up his jaw that Derek wishes very badly were his fingers, his lips.
It’s almost too subtle for Derek to catch, and would be if he didn’t know Stiles’s face so very, very well, enough to notice the way his mouth and eyes soften just so, a tiny quirk of the lips Derek hopes no other living soul will ever get to see, just him. And he knows, then, that Stiles understands just what he’s thinking, can read all the same things off Derek’s expression as Derek reads in his.
For a second Stiles opens his mouth like he wants to tell him, uncaring as ever that speech isn’t always necessary as long as it makes him happy. And from the gleam of his eyes, it’s clear saying it would bring him no small joy. But then he shuts it again and shakes his head a bit with a smile and a rueful chuckle, takes a step closer and says instead, “Hey,” low and private, something for Derek and no one else.
And that’s all it takes, that right there, that one word. It’s enough; it’s all he’ll ever need to know.
Some sheriffs can be wooed with donuts from hot coaches. Maybe.
Hand holding. Derek loves hand holding. He’ll never admit to it, of course, but when Stiles puts his hand in his, it’s magic. He gets butterflies in his stomach and his face flushes a bit, but if Stiles notices this, he doesn’t say anything.
In fact, hand holding is what they’re doing right now. Stiles is on break, so Derek decided to swing by and take him out for coffee. He’d like to call it a mini date, but it’s really just what it seems — a coffee break. But, the hand holding makes it seem like it’s so much more than that. So, Derek will just call it a coffee date break. Sounds good.
Regardless, standing on line is something Derek does not love. He hates it. He’s so impatient about it, and that’s something Stiles tends to point out a lot. “Look, all of these people are on line for the same reasons you are — coffee and donuts. Just chill,” he would say. But, today, he doesn’t say anything about Derek’s sour face and his loud sighing about the long line in front of him. He just stares at the menu with a quaint smile on his face.
Derek thinks maybe something’s wrong, so he squeezes his hand gently. Stiles looks over at him briefly and then leans his head against Derek’s shoulder. “I love you,” he sighs.
“Okay, spill it. What’s wrong?” Derek asks. Stiles looks up at him out of the corner of his eye. He frowns and buries his head in Derek’s shoulder instead. Derek’s frown deepens, because this is totally out of the norm. Stiles doesn’t mope. Derek removes his shoulder from under Stiles’s head and he takes his chin in his hand, examining his face. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?” Stiles hesitates and then shakes his head.
“I just… A whole family was murdered last night… I was put on the case, which is why I’m working over-time for the next few days… And… Derek, we really don’t know what we have until it’s gone.” It took a moment for the realization to kick in, and then Derek took Stiles’s hand again. PDA wasn’t really Derek’s thing.
“Well… you’ll always have me, okay? I’m not getting murdered. Ever,” he said, trying to reassure Stiles. Instead, Stiles laughed. Derek was offended for a moment until Stiles began to explain.
“Derek, you don’t know if you’ll ever get murdered. You can’t tell me you’ll never get murdered. If you do get murdered, though, I’ll be sure to avenge you.” Stiles says it with such joking tone, but Derek knows that Stiles would avenge him in a heartbeat. He knows Stiles would sacrifice himself so that Derek could live, if he had to. Derek kisses the top of Stiles’s head. He might not like PDA, but he knows when Stiles needs it.
“I love you, too.”
And now, they’re at the front of the line. Derek orders for Stiles, because he knows exactly what Stiles likes in his coffee. He also orders a donut with his own coffee, which Stiles raises an eyebrow at. “Mr. Health Freak Extravaganza is getting a donut?” Derek, of course, can’t suppress his smile.
“I can have a snack every once in awhile.” Stiles looks at him for a good long minute before shrugging. Derek has always been weird like that.
While they’re waiting for their beverages and Derek’s donut, Stiles fiddles with the newly placed ring on his middle finger. “Why did I ask for it to be put on the finger I flip people off with again?”
“Because you said you felt closer to my dick,” Derek says flatly. “Something like ‘middle fingers symbolize dicks?’ Remember, we were plastered at the reception.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Stiles says. They both stay silent for a moment before they burst out laughing. “We’re dumbasses!” Stiles laughs.
“YOU’RE the dumbass!” Derek laughs, as well. When their order comes in, they take it and sit on the benches outside. Derek takes a bite out of the donut he ordered before sipping his coffee. Stiles mixes his coffee idly, staring up at the sky.
“It’s a really nice day,” he says, but then he sees a donut wavering in the corner of his eye. He looks over at it and then sees Derek grinning. Stiles narrows his eyes playfully and makes a face. “This was your intention all along. Wasn’t it.”
“Yup,” Derek says.
“You’re trying to fatten me up.”
“What is it, then?”
“They say sheriffs can be wooed with donuts.”
“That’s a stereotype.”
“You know it’s true.”
“I hate you.”
“I love you, too.”
I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS!!!
Seriously though! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME ksdfhlskj BOTH OF YOU!
I’m handing over all of my AUs and retiring! THIS IS AMAZING AND I HAVE NO WORDSSKHDFGSDKLH1!!!1! I’ll just go lie down somewhere and try to take in all the awesome
Stiles was never going to open his mouth again. “Do the research yourself for once Derek! I’m not your personal walking talking Google!”
Now he regretted saying that because for the past week… that’s exactly what Derek had been doing. His own research, without once consulting Stiles. It had gotten to the point where Stiles started putting post-it notes with giant black x’s on certain books to aid their alpha in his search for the monster of the week because he refused to speak to Stiles (and he knew how hopeless the pack was without his skills). He even printed off his own research and snuck it into Scott’s bookbag, knowing the beta would find it, play it off as his own research to Derek despite the fact that Stiles’ scent was all over it.
All he wanted was to be included again. He missed being the go-to guy for problems and, most of all, he longed to have Derek lingering in the shadows of his room when he came home - and that was concerning.
In which Stiles learns to Stalk That Stalk. (Or, how to accidentally woo your unfriendly neighborhood alpha in roughly five hundred handwritten steps.)
Shit. What do you write inside a fake ticket meant to briefly mislead a slightly unhinged werewolf into deep annoyance? Stiles is pretty sure, “Ahahahahahaha” is not appropriate, and 100% certain that, “For reasons I cannot even explain to myself, you’ve kind of been a recurring feature in my ongoing journey of sexual discovery since the first time I laid eyes on you,” will not go over well. Hmm. Decisions, decisions.
Eventually, he writes, “Gotcha!” and walks back over to the car, shoving the fake ticket under the left windshield wiper with satisfaction. It’s not much better than “Ahahahahaha,” but it’s a significant improvement on the other option, so Stiles is going to count it as a win. He goes back to the cruiser, meets his father coming the other way, and mostly forgets about it. Hopefully it’ll at least cause some mild intrigue at some point, unless (please, please, please, please) something else comes up.
School has been out for three days the first night Derek shows up. He knocks on the door because Stiles is on the couch, his dad’s shift over in a few hours, and when Stiles sees Derek on the porch, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Derek looks different somehow, his beard a little thicker, his eyes a little sadder, his back a little straighter like he’s carrying the weight of the world on it. Or maybe just the weight of Boyd and Erica.
Stiles steps aside and Derek enters his house, looking around like he’s just as confused as Stiles about why he’s there. They stare at each other for a few moments, and then Stiles sighs and offers him some leftovers.
The next time is a few weeks later, when Derek slips through his window just after midnight. Stiles squeaks out his surprise when he looks up from his online game, and he’s about to ask what Derek’s doing there when he notices the blood on his shirt.
He doesn’t ask. He just goes over to his drawer and tosses him a clean shirt he’s pretty sure will fit. Stiles doesn’t look when Derek lifts the shirt over his head; he pulls up his Netflix instant queue and chooses a movie.
“I’ve lost their scent,” Derek murmurs quietly the third time he visits. It’s well into June, hot and humid, and Derek’s the only person other than his dad he’s seen in two weeks. Stiles is so lonely he doesn’t question why Derek’s showing up anymore, doesn’t want him to leave after the movie neither of them is watching finishes.
“I can call Scott, get him – “
“No. Don’t tell him about this,” Derek says, finally looking at Stiles. His eyes are bright even in the dark room, the changing lights from the laptop screen reflecting off them. His jaw looks more angular, the tilt of his head making it sharp and dangerous. “I shouldn’t have told you about this,” he whispers as his eyes close briefly, like Stiles wasn’t supposed to hear. But he hears, every word Derek says, the lilt in his voice, the rise and fall, like how it’s sometimes deep in his chest and other times almost nasal.
Stiles sometimes hears the words Derek doesn’t say.
He is about to tell Derek something – he’s not sure what – when Derek abruptly stands up and leaves through the window without a glance back.
Stiles pretends he was going to say something mundane but he knows he would have actually said something like please tell me everything. you can always tell me everything.
The fourth time Stiles is on the couch, and Derek just walks in without knocking. Stiles tries to believe the uptick in his heartbeat is from being startled.
Derek sits too close to him on the couch, thigh against thigh, the tight denim hugging Derek’s leg a distraction. Stiles isn’t sure when this became normal, when Derek showing up at his house made him nervous, but not in the way it used to. Maybe it was around the same time his hair started growing out, or when Scott started reading more to distract himself than for school, or when Derek started half-smiling when he talked.
All Stiles knows is that he watched a crime drama marathon with Derek, and the only thing he remembers is the way his leg felt pressed against his, the way his fingers felt when they absently brushed against Stiles’ skin.
Stiles finds himself outside Derek’s new loft after two weeks of not seeing him. Stiles tells himself it’s to make sure that Derek is okay, to find out how the search is going, and he tells Derek the same thing when Derek opens the door and looks at him in confusion, but not exactly like he’s not glad to see him. Stiles blames the sudden flush on the July heat and tells Derek he likes the new loft a lot better than the subway station.
Derek offers him a bottle of water, and Stiles looks around at the sparse furniture, probably all purchased from the Good Will or scavenged from the side of the road or dumpsters, and the bed in the corner that’s obviously new. It’s a start, Stiles thinks.
In the harsh overhead light, Derek looks ragged, tired, worn out in a way that Stiles has never seen before. His shoulders are painfully straight, and Stiles can see the tension radiating through the taut lines of muscle, the worry lines in his face almost permanent now.
He only stays for a few minutes, because Derek doesn’t have a TV and doesn’t seem in the mood to talk and Stiles can’t think of another reason to hang around. Before he leaves, he pulls something from his pocket and sets it on the counter. When he walks by Derek, he instinctively reaches out and runs a hand over the ball of Derek’s shoulder, his fingers lingering a little too long, Derek leaning into the touch a little too much.
Stiles doesn’t look at Derek – can’t look at him because he’s not sure he wants to see – and heads for the door.
“What’s this?” Derek asks as Stiles’ fingers wrap around the handle.
Stiles glances over his shoulder, a mistake when he sees Derek’s face. He’s holding the flat case in his hand, a vulnerable look in his eyes Stiles has never seen before. It makes him look younger, makes him look accessible, makes him look human.
“A mix CD,” Stiles answers lightly with a wave of his wrist. “For, you know, when you’re out looking. It’s just some songs I’ve been listening to lately. You’ll probably hate it; you don’t strike me much as the indie rock type.”
“Thank you,” Derek responds, his voice quiet and calm, lower and more gravelly than Stiles wants to acknowledge. He hears what Derek says, but he also hears what he doesn’t.
“Yup. Welcome,” Stiles says awkwardly, hurrying out of the loft and away from that look on Derek’s face.
Stiles drops by twice over the next week and Derek’s not there. The third time, Derek answers the door in a grey wife beater and impossibly tight jeans, and Stiles wonders what he’s doing, what they’re doing.
Derek orders pizza and Stiles loads up Netflix on Peter’s laptop, and they have to huddle close to see the screen despite the heat from the late July sun streaming in through the windows.
Stiles notices that Derek looks resolved, determined today, replacing the weary sadness he’d sported the last month. He wonders what’s different, but doesn’t ask. Instead, he tries to scoot closer, pretends Derek needs to be touched in his loneliness as much as Stiles.
Derek’s hand ends up on Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles’ foot draped over Derek’s ankle. When Stiles looks up and finds Derek staring at him, he’s not surprised when Derek leans down and kisses him. His lips are soft and gentle at first, hesitant like he’s still trying to decide, and Stiles lets him because Stiles decided weeks ago, maybe even longer ago than that.
Derek’s mouth grows more confident, more demanding, and Stiles gives Derek everything he wordlessly asks for without a thought. And when he ends up on his back on Derek’s new bed, his and Derek’s shirts discarded somewhere between the couch and here, his shorts unbuttoned as Derek licks one of his nipples, Stiles doesn’t pretend anymore, stops holding back from Derek and himself.
His fingers fumble gracelessly with Derek’s belt, but he doesn’t care, Derek’s breathing heavy as he holds himself on his knees, looking down at Stiles working his jeans and boxers over his growing erection. Derek shucks Stiles’ pants much more quickly, and he feels embarrassed until they’re pressed together, hot skin against hot skin. Between the heat from the setting sun and Derek’s body all over him, Stiles can barely breathe, and he’s staring up at the ceiling, at the exposed beams as he tries to get his bearings.
Derek’s rutting against him desperately, and Stiles matches him thrust for thrust, their bodies sweatslick atop the crumpled black comforter. Derek slides his hand up the long line of Stiles’ arm, threading their fingers together as he bites his neck gently, and Stiles hooks a leg around his waist as he squeezes Derek’s hand and pulls him closer. Derek grasps his hand tightly, holding on to Stiles like he’s afraid he’s going to disappear.
After Derek sucks a bruise into his skin, he lifts his head, looking down at Stiles, eyes bright and lust-filled until he blinks and red eyes pierce into him. Stiles feels stripped, in way he’s never felt before, in a way he decides he only wants Derek to do to him. Derek leans down and kisses him, and it’s all tongueteethlips and touchthrustgasp as they slide against one another, and Stiles knows that Derek is pulling him apart at the seams, that he’ll have to stitch Derek back together afterwards. When Stiles comes, Derek bites a bruise into his shoulder, and Stiles doesn’t have to pretend that Derek breathes his name when he comes a moment later.
They lay in bed afterwards, a mess of tangled limbs and sweat, and Stiles is silent for once, listening to all that Derek’s not saying, hoping Derek is listening to all the words that he doesn’t say.